


The Strong Sweet Smell Of Incense

by Savageandwise



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, M/M, McLennon, Sexual Situations, Work of fiction, not my take on reality
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-11
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-03 12:43:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15819120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Savageandwise/pseuds/Savageandwise
Summary: They talked about anything and everything under the sun. Paul would find himself admitting things he'd never told a soul before. It was okay, though. Robert was his physician. Robert was his priest. What can he tell him about John?





	The Strong Sweet Smell Of Incense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [twinka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/twinka/gifts).



> This story is for Twinka who has a thing for Robert Fraser I initially didn't understand but rewatching 8 Days A Week I noticed the emphasis on Paul and Robert's trip to Paris in 1966 and decided he must have been important to Paul for them to put him in the film like that. Of course I really only write about John and Paul so I had to think of a way to put John in it. 
> 
> I hope you like it Twinka!!
> 
> I read parts of Harriet Vyner's book about Robert and I must say now I'm well on my way to having a thing for him too!
> 
> Let me know what you think. If not on here then on Tumblr @savageandwise
> 
> Thanks to Janescarlett for the beta!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They talked about anything and everything under the sun. Paul would find himself admitting things he'd never told a soul before. It was okay, though. Robert was his physician. Robert was his priest.

It was a bit like going to confession. Robert straightbacked on the overstuffed couch strewn with cushions, his feet in embroidered, tasselled slippers. Paul was almost expecting a monogram but it was a floral motif picked out in gold thread. Paul was on his back on the Persian carpet, his legs bent at knees. They'd been drinking mint tea and smoking shisha with Mohammed dancing attendance all night long. The whole place reeked of incense. Paul's head was pleasantly fuzzy with it. 

They talked about anything and everything under the sun. Paul would find himself admitting things he'd never told a soul before. It was okay, though. Robert was his physician. Robert was his priest. That's why he told him he wasn't in love with Jane. He'd never been in love…never been in love with any woman before.

“Am I to assume you've been in love with a man, then?” Robert asked with an impish smile.

It was difficult to shrug in his prone position. Paul was silent for moments too long before answering. “I mean, what's love anyway?”

“My dear friend!” Robert laughed. “You've written some of the most famous love songs of the decade. Either you've got a marvelous imagination or you have a muse.” He had a stutter but never seemed insecure. It seemed, instead, as though he was biding his time, punctuating each statement with a machine-gun blast of words.

Paul tried to empty his mind of thought as though he were afraid Robert might pluck the truth from his brain like you'd pluck a bud from a rose bush. The image of John's body—bent at the waist, his knees drawn up to his chest, his sweat-dark hair plastered against his pale cheek, lashes spiky with sleep—flashed behind Paul's eyelids.

“Or you have an excellent writing partner,” Robert said slowly.

“Well, John and I have been writing together for many years,” Paul said. It came out sheepish. It came out sounding like a confession. He hoped Robert hadn't noticed but the truth of the matter was he likely had and was too polite to call him out on it.

“Yes, the fabulous Mr. Lennon. I always wondered if there was any truth to the rumour he and Brian Epstein were an item? Scratch that. I do rabbit on. No, you needn't answer, Paul.”

Paul sat up and hugged his legs, pulled on a lock of his hair awkwardly. “No, I don't think it is true. They went on holiday once. To Spain. But… well…”

John said nothing happened. Paul had long since made his peace with that betrayal. Most days. The pain was gone but the burn still lingered.

“I see,” Robert said gently.

“I went to Tenerife with George and Ringo. It was lovely until I nearly drowned. Just imagine! What rotten luck that would have been, right on the cusp of making it big.”

“Quite,” Robert agreed, lighting a cigarette and handing it to Paul. “You didn't though, did you, drown, clearly. What did it feel like?” His eyes bulged slightly as they did when he was interested in a subject, he leaned forward and exhaled, enveloping Paul in smoke.

Everything had been okay until it wasn't any longer. Like the feeling he sometimes got arguing with John. You'd be swimming along, right as rain; and then all at once you're caught in the whirlpool, you're struggling against dangerous waves, doesn't matter you're a terrific swimmer. You know in that instant it's all over.

“Impotence,” Paul answered, the word just tumbled from his lips before he could stop himself. “I was fighting to stay above water, calling out to George and Ringo on the shore but they didn't react. For a moment I got very still—inside—I got very still inside, resigned, like. I thought I was a goner. I was… well, for a few seconds at least... I was at peace.”

“Interesting choice of word...Impotent,” Robert said.

Paul felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. “I don't know why I said that.”

“Don't you?” Robert asked, leaning back again and flicking the ash into heavy blown glass ashtray on the low coffee table. 

John was in Spain with Brian. Alone, with Brian. And Paul was there, pushing himself too far, dragged down by the ocean. 

“You can't imagine the pressure I'm under, Paul,” John had said.

“Well, that's just not true is it? We're all under pressure,” Paul said dully.

“The marriage. The baby. The...the… you know.”

Yes. The baby, the marriage and all the rest. The rest… what he did with Paul, it was illegal. And every one was watching them now.

“Fuck you,” Paul had muttered.

That had been the last thing he’d said to John. And then he was drowning. He'd been frozen in the water. Losing the battle. And then anger had surged through him like a blast of light from a flare gun. John was with Brian while he struggled to stay alive. Was it sentimental to say John had saved him? The thought of seeing him again, of giving him a piece of his mind had given him strength to fight. It was as simple as that.

“I didn't die. I managed to make it out of the water and I wanted to punch George for not coming to help me. I wanted to…”

“Waving, not drowning,” Robert murmured.

“Pardon?”

He recalled it so vividly he could smell the salt, feel it sting in his nostrils, burn in his lungs. Mouthful after mouthful of sea water, bitter as regret. 

“He thought you were waving. That's why he didn't come to your aid,” Robert explained.

“I suppose,” Paul said a trifle sulkily. He'd been angry at the whole stupid situation. That his last words to John had been: _Fuck you_ and not what he'd planned to say which was: _Nevermind Brian. Nevermind Spain. Let's go back to Paris like we always wanted to. I don't want to see Astrid and Klaus. I want to be with you._

He sucked on his bottom lip absently and after a moment realised Robert was staring at him. 

“You look like a little boy when you make that face. A child used to getting his way. I don't suppose I need to tell you how attractive it is.”

“Is it?” Paul asked, his eyes wide.

Robert gave him a knowing smile, tapped the side of his nose displacing his glasses slightly. Those thick black frames that reminded him so of John.

“You're very good at that. Charming really. But that's not all. There's a mind behind that charm, behind that wide-eyed act,” Robert said. “You nearly died. It must have changed something in you. It must have made you think differently about living.”

“What's all this death talk?” Paul asked, changing tack. “You seem fairly fascinated.”

“Well, we're all dying, aren't we? Paul? I know how I will die,” Robert said, crossing his legs and exposing his ankle. The line was striking, beautiful even, that jutting of ankle bone, the faint dusting of dark hair, a smattering of scabs, delicate as constellations, like tribal scarification. Marks from a syringe, Paul realised, Keith had explained it to him. Marks from injecting heroin.

“How will you die?” Paul asked, in the sort of hushed voice you might use in church.

Robert stubbed out his cigarette, picked up his mint tea and set it down again. “I have a recurring dream. I'm in a room. It's very quiet. Outside I can hear cars, people talking. I'm dying. I can feel it. My body returning to the earth. Decomposing all around me. I can smell it. Very strong. Very sweet like my mother's perfume when I was a child. Or perhaps more formal, more ritual to it, bittersweet like incense. It's unmistakable. When it comes for me I’ll know it.” All at once his stutter was completely gone, his voice smooth as silk. 

Paul was silent for a long time, stunned by the candidness of Robert's words.

“I do think there's meaning in dreams,” Paul said at last. “I've had dreams like that before. So clear they seemed prophetic.”

“Have you dreamed of your death, then?” Robert asked.

He dreamed of John's death. It was different every time but one thing remained the same. That absolute calm. That stillness inside. He stopped struggling and let the water carry him. There was relief in the surrender.

“Not my own, no. I still dream of my mum dying though. And…” He hesitates a moment before continuing. “... I've dreamed of John's death.”

“Does John know?” Robert asked, fixing Paul with a stare. He slid from the couch to the floor his knees touching Paul's.

“That I dreamed about his death?” Paul laughed. “John takes dreams very seriously. There's no point upsetting him, is there? There's nothing to tell, really. It's more a feeling than an image. And this woman's voice. Telling me he's gone. Such a sweet, thin voice, like a little girl.”

“Does John know you're in love with him?” Robert clarified.

“John…” Paul began. “John…” 

He didn't know how to put it. John knew as much as he did. They had not yet invented the words to express how they felt about each other. Paul leaned back on his hands, tilted his head back to look at the ceiling. There were cobwebs in the stucco design. Paul shut his eyes again.

“I understand.”

“Do you? Because I don't,” Paul said. There was a strange pleading in his voice like he was begging Robert to explain it to him. “I don't think John… it's just not the sort of thing we talk about. 

He hadn't denied it, though. There was a light that flickered behind Robert’s eyes. 

“You fucked. You just haven't defined it,” Robert stated without decorum. 

When you put it like that it sounded so crass. Paul turned on his side, his face hidden from view. “I think I need some air,” he murmured.

Robert put his hand on the cuff of Paul's trousers, his fingers stroking the cloth, causing a pleasant tickling sensation on Paul's skin.

“You don't have to tell me anything, you know. But anything you do tell me, Paul… anything… you know it stays between us?” 

The relief was indescribable. It felt like coming up for air, his lungs labouring hard, that first wretched breath, sharp as mint.

“We have…” Paul blurted. “John and I... We have been...”

“You have…” Robert began.

“Fucking,” Paul said. The word came out too loud. It seemed to fill the whole room. He couldn't stifle a giggle. Saying it out loud was cathartic.

Robert’s lips twitched in amusement.

“What's it like?” Paul asked. He put his hands on Robert's knees impulsively. “Living like that? Free.”

Robert looked down at Paul's hands, encircled his wrists like handcuffs. “No one is really free.”

“No? You go where you want, say what you want… you fuck whoever you want. I envy you,” Paul said. He twisted out of Robert's gentle grip and put his hands on the man's chest.

“Ah, Paul,” Robert said softly, his hands came up to clasp Paul's shoulders. He wasn't sure if he was pulling him close or pushing him away. “But you have something else. Something I envy,”

“What's that?” Paul asked. In a fit of daring he pressed his nose to Robert's neck, inhaled his Penhaligon's Blenheim cologne. He’d seen the bottle in the bathroom when he went to freshen up, established 1870, by Royal Appointment. Robert smelled exotic, adult. Not the familiar scent he associated with John: clean sweat, smoke and lust. Robert smelled sweet.

“Love,” he said simply. “What more could anyone want?”

It was abundantly clear what—who—Robert was talking about. And it wasn't Jane, not the fans. He didn't think Robert ought to be envious. Robert didn't know John the way he did. The insecurity, the silliness, neediness, the flat out audacity of a man who could call Brian a queer Shylock in one moment, suck Paul's cock moments later. He rarely apologised. He could screw every girl who waited outside his dressing room but throw a tantrum when Paul implied he'd been intimate with Jane while on holiday.

Robert was pulling him closer, Paul realised with a thrill. It was such a turn on to be desired by a man like Robert. So different than the sweet war he waged with John. Even the way Robert touched him was different, exciting. He was confident yet each subtle pressure of his fingertips held a question. Paul was shocked to find the answer to each one was yes. He let Robert take his chin in one hand, angle it forward purposefully. They were going to kiss. The anticipation was excruciating. Paul pulled away and dipped forward, pressed his mouth to Robert's impatiently.

For a moment all he knew was the splendid physicality of it. Their lips parting, tongues sliding against each other. The tip of Robert's tongue flickered against his chipped tooth. By contrast kissing John the first time had been a tangle of emotions as insidious as a basket of snakes. Paul couldn't really remember who'd moved first. One minute they'd been arguing and the next they were kissing, open-mouthed, their hands all over each other. 

Robert pulled away first, laughing gently. “You're keener than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?” Paul asked. 

“Oh yes,” he said. “And so did you.”

He had imagined it. Ever since he first saw Robert, entering a room like he knew he was the most important man there. Even the way he put one foot in front of the other had been fascinating. Robert was holding one of Paul's hands between both of his. Paul hadn't even noticed him taking hold of it. His dark eyes sparked with interest and a kind of mirth. Mocking?

“I can taste him on you,” Robert said suddenly. 

Paul blinked in confusion. “Taste him? I've washed me teeth since then and all!” he said indignantly.

He didn't want to talk about John he wanted to block him out, lose himself in the newness of this. He pressed kisses to Robert's neck, travelling downwards to his collarbone. He tongued the skin along that sharp ridge and Robert shivered appreciatively. All at once Paul couldn't wait a moment longer. There was a knot in his stomach, pulled so tight he could barely breathe. He opened Robert's shirt, fingers displacing buttons rapidly and in a matter of seconds had stripped it off and moved to the opening of his trousers. It was a speed born of illicit couplings. Robert put his hand on Paul's to stop him.

“The bed…” he stuttered.

Paul shook his head soundlessly. He'd only been to bed with one man. He didn't want to change that now. Robert nodded, his expression was one of understanding. There was poetry in the way Robert undressed him, a slow silent dance, in moments he'd stripped off Paul's garments and he’d barely felt it happening. John was careless with clothes, every time they fucked he scattered buttons like confetti. He'd pull Paul's shirt over his head without first unfastening the collar, cutting off his circulation. All the while muttering under his breath: “Fuck, Paul but I need you. It's killing me.” He'd take Paul's hand and rub it against the front of his trousers so he could feel how much.

Naked and shivering Paul and Robert sat opposite each other on the Persian carpet. He reached forward, ran a hand down Robert's chest. He forced himself to look down, take in the sight of Robert's cock, jutting out from it's nest of dark hair. It was as beautiful as the rest of him. Paul put his hand on it tried to concentrate on how it felt to touch someone who wasn't John. He squeezed it tentatively.

“That's lovely,” Robert assured him. He reached for Paul's hips, pulling him closer. 

And oh, god, he wasn't even sure why he wanted this, but he was painfully hard now, if Robert didn't touch him soon he'd go mad. Robert leaned down put his mouth on the head of Paul's prick. Paul couldn't stifle a groan of relief. He struggled to control himself. With John he wouldn't need to. They'd dispensed with the kid gloves ages ago. Maybe they'd never worn them. With John, Paul would push himself in until he gagged, fuck his mouth till tears leaked from his eyes. The more it hurt, the more John liked it. This wasn't John with his mouth on his cock. This was Robert and Robert was experienced. The way he used his tongue, the way he stroked Paul's shaft, made it clear he'd done this many, many times, probably with a variety of partners. Robert reached down to fondle Paul's balls, his fingernails grazed his anus roughly; the sensation was unexpected and so welcome that without further ado he spilled into Robert's mouth.

He'd forgotten that feeling of humiliation when your sexual performance wasn't up to scratch with a new partner. It had been years since he cared about that with women. Most of them were just grateful to be invited into his Beatle bed anyway, it didn't matter in the slightest how his performance was. Paul's ears burned now. 

“I'm usually not…” Paul began.

Robert swallowed, licked the tip of his prick clean and waved his excuses away. Robert didn't seem surprised or turned off in the slightest. His eyes glittered with suppressed amusement. 

“I take it as a compliment,” he said.

“What did you mean you can taste him?” Paul asked when he'd caught his breath. 

Robert rested his head on the edge of the couch, staring at Paul as he absentmindedly brushed his hand along his own semi-erect prick.

“I mean you never stop thinking about him. Not for a moment.”

Paul made a small, sound of protest like an upset cat.

“Oh, I'm not accusing you. It's charming really. A threesome almost. You're steeped in him. Through and through.”

Robert encircled his now hard cock with his hand, stroked it deliberately, his eyes on Paul.

“It's not true, you know. I'm not in love with him. It's just...It's John,” Paul protested.

Watching Robert toss himself off reminded him of the early days with John. Those wanking games they played, a whole circle of lads. Paul had spent most of the time staring covertly at John. Years later, John confessed he'd done the same. The revelation had astounded and aroused Paul. 

“You would know,” Robert said, his breath was uneven. He ran his thumb over head of his cock, shivering a little. 

Paul slid closer to him. “I do know. I know!” he insisted. He wasn't sure why he was arguing. But he knew he needed to convince Robert. Paul reached forward, wrapped his hand around Robert's. He looked at Paul, eyes wide. They stroked together, Robert's come seeped through his fingers and on to Paul's. 

“Hey,” Robert said when he caught his breath.

He reached for a handkerchief and handed it to Paul. Paul just stared at him in confusion. Robert gestured to his face, his hands dancing beneath his eyes.

“Just a bit… a bit damp round the edges. It's alright, really,” Robert said comfortingly.

Paul blinked away tears, lifted the handkerchief to his face in shock. “Oh!” he exclaimed. “I'm… how silly…”

“It's alright, Paul,” Robert repeated. “These things happen.” 

He took a clean handkerchief from the table and wiped his hands. Then he wiped Paul's hands for him.

“It isn't alright,” Paul said wetly, as though his heart was breaking. “How can it be alright? I can't be in love with him!”

Oh, but he was. Terribly, deeply in love.


End file.
